


Ambition Realized

by Lobo_Loca



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: By which I mean hella wordy, Drabble, Gen, Lotor is Loquacious, Post-Season 4, Present Tense, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-22 21:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12491324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobo_Loca/pseuds/Lobo_Loca
Summary: Lotor joins the Coalition, and watches his plan unfold.





	Ambition Realized

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Wandering_Serena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Wandering_Serena/gifts).



The Paladins are in turmoil: precious, venerated leader returned from the void nothing but a clone, an unknowing tool of the Empire; the former Red Paladin out among the rebels on a mission in some far flung quadrant beyond the reach of Castle communications; divided among themselves on how to handle the crisis as the Red Paladin insists on waiting for the return of his predecessor and the Blue Paladin insists that Voltron must remain battle ready with the Coalition more altricial than precocial, the Green and Yellow Paladins either uncertain or unwilling to pick a side.

The Black Lion sits empty, waiting.

The Empire looms just beyond the horizon.

Lotor could offer himself for the position—a stop gap measure only, he would assure them, teeth tucked away behind a neutral smile—but he has slipped projects past Haggar’s scrutiny, sacrificed his standing in the Empire, and waited two years for this plot to bear fruit. Impatience cost Zarkon Voltron 10,000 years ago. Lotor will not make the same mistake.

One week, then two, then a mission gone wrong.

Tensions spike, tempers flare, and Lotor may not have front row seats to the fallout, but he can hear the yelling start from his quarters. He heads to the upper training deck, far removed from the common areas and personal quarters.

Less than a varga, and the Blue Paladin storms in, face blank but eyes filled with helpless furry.

Lotor puts the training drone down with a sword through the chest, and opens his mouth to offer her privacy, but her expression twists before he can speak, determination creasing her brows and eyes flickering through calculation and wary hope and desperation as they landed on him.

“Come with me,” she orders, latching onto his bicep and dragging him towards the door.

Lotor entertains the notion of fighting her hold, playing the prideful prince. A favored tool as everyone expects it, and never looks closely enough for the snare before it closes around their throats.

But this is not only a Paladin of Voltron. This is Princess Allura of Altea, who had once wandered the Daibazaal palace grounds and had to be lead back by the hand to the guest wing. She sees the disgraced Prince of the Galra Empire, and searches for traces of the half-Altean princeling who had once been kind.

He remains silent as she drags him down to the hanger.

(He does not tell her the boy she looks for died with his planet, his mother, his home.)

She stops in front of the Black Lion, hand on his arm tightening almost painfully before releasing entirely. “The universe needs Voltron. Now more than ever.”

“The free universe,” Lotor corrects, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “I imagine a fair portion of imperial space would rather see Voltron melted to slag than be left in your hands.”

“I imagine they would like to do the same to you,” replies Allura.

Lotor admits easily, “Undoubtedly.”

She inhales sharply, shoulders squaring and feet settling into a firm stance. “Go.”

“Assuming the Black Lion even deigns to respond, the Red Paladin will not accept me.”

“We will cross that wormhole when we come to it,” Allura says grimly, setting a hand between his shoulders and pushing him toward the lowering ramp. Repeats, “Go.”

Lotor goes. The interior of the cockpit is dark, but navigating to the Paladin’s chair is easy enough. He settles in carefully, excitement warring with pessimism as he curls his fingers around the controls.

All of his father’s stories of the Lions painted them as living entities, beings that had spoken to and guided Alfor as he crafted them, consciousnesses fastidious with whom they allowed to pilot them. Fastidiousness implies desire, implies goals, implies ambition.

But what does sentient transreality matter want?

Lotor hasn’t the faintest idea, nor whether their desire(s) are parallel or intersecting with his own, nor whether he meets whatever requirements the Black Lion has of their Paladin. He never dared presume to be chosen, but the chance to try is too tempting to pass up, a welcome happenstance crafted by a greater plot not reliant on its success.

Ticks accumulate into dobashes, and the controls lay dormant under his hands, instruments dark. Lotor sighs, ignoring the curl of disappointment in his chest as he starts to rise.

The instruments flicker to life, faint at first but slowly brightening as the hanger becomes clear.

Lotor drops back into the chair. He stares at the display as the chuckles start, slowly sliding into full-body laughter.

Triumph soared through his veins.

The Black Lion has judged him, and found him worthy.

“Where you failed, Father: I have succeeded.”

**Author's Note:**

> (I also have so many other WIPs I should've worked on instead. Blame my stupid brain which gets inspired at the drop of a hat, and Serena who was the first one to even mention BP!Lotor, in addition to being firmly Team Brain and a horrible enabler.)
> 
> Edit: [Serena's art that spawned this madness](http://silver-yuka.tumblr.com/post/167172633323/a-lot-of-weird-theories-led-me-to-this-point-and)


End file.
